


Too Much

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Lend Me Your Sofa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:30:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>An old J & L fic. For a prompt from Morgan_Stuart:</em><br/>"'Excuse me, Inspector, but may I use your couch?' While John was dating Sarah, he knew he could always crash overnight on her couch when Sherlock got to be too much. But now that they've broken up, John doesn't really have that option. The only person he thinks will understand and help is Lestrade. Cue the awkward conversation between two decent men who don't really know each other well, but who both know Sherlock."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morgan_Stuart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan_Stuart/gifts).



 

 

_He’s too much tonight._

_Your sofa free?_

_JW_

 

_Sure. Leaving the door unlocked._

_GL_

 

“Thank God,” thought John as he stepped quietly into Lestrade’s small, simply furnished flat. He smelled a cup of spicy, steaming tea, and saw the olive bread and fresh mozzarella sitting next to it on the table. He toed off his shoes. Then he pulled off his clothes, folded them neatly and tucked them away on a low, half-empty bookshelf in the sitting room. He downed a few bites of bread and cheese, then swallowed the tea in one gulp.

As usual, a pillow and two blankets were tossed on the arm of the sofa. A fresh towel was draped on the bathroom sink. John washed his face, neck, and arms. Found the toothbrush he'd shoved in his jacket, brushed his teeth, and then collapsed on the sofa. He pulled the covers tight around him, put his iPod on shuffle and tucked it under the pillow so the sound of Motown was muffled, sweet, and low.

“Hey,” Lestrade stood near the end of the sofa, a faint blue glow from a streetlamp outside falling over his face, accentuating the lines and shadows—hard-won trophies, just like all that silver hair. John had noticed more grey in his own hair and a few more lines in his forehead since he moved in at Baker Street, come to think of it. Something else to blame Sherlock for.

He squinted and responded, “Hi. Thanks for the rescue-- _again_. I didn’t feel like a battle tonight, you know? He’s manic over that kidnapping—but I just have to get some sleep or I’ll be no use . . .”

“Stop explaining, John. I get it. Not a problem.” Lestrade folded his arms across his chest, “You’re lucky I’m in between posh lovers and Royal Galas—normally wouldn’t be able to fit you into my schedule on such short notice.”

John closed his eyes and smiled. “Well, I’ll count myself fortunate, then.”

Lestrade walked to the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of water. John opened his eyes when the light flickered on, considered his words for a few moments, then closed his eyes as Lestrade turned off the light, locked the door, and made his way back towards his bedroom.

“I wonder sometimes if it’s worth all the trouble. I . .”

Lestrade turned and walked back to the sofa, interrupting, “Half the time you want to strangle him, and the other half it’s like you’re high on the greatest drug ever invented. He looks at you like you’re a bloody golden retriever most days, and he can’t be bothered to explain himself to someone of such low mental capacity.”

“Yeah,” John snorted, “but then he’ll say something, or do something that just turns it all around. Makes me think I do have something to offer—makes me think he couldn’t manage to survive—much less, solve any cases—without me. I haven’t seen Ella in awhile, so I don’t know whether that’s a load of shit—total pathetic, self-delusion—or not.”

John thought maybe he saw a smile pass quickly over Lestrade’s face. “You don’t need a fucking therapist, John,” he declared. “I can tell you you’re deluded and full of shit—and I’ll do it for free.”

John sighed and waited for the final teasing insult, which he knew from experience was coming after the copper’s dramatic pause.

But Greg offered up a story instead of an insult or sarcasm this time. "So, John, did you know I used to perform in a circus when I was a kid? Left home about fifteen and did a lot of stuff--some clowning, some tricks with a troupe of dogs, but mostly I worked the wire--about six or seven feet off the ground."

"What the hell? How long did you do that?"

"Couple of years--not too long. It was a great job for a kid who needed some adventure and couldn't manage to sit still in school. I loved it. But the point I want to make is that I often look at Sherlock and think he's a fucking high-wire act himself, you know? He's a natural performer--and he's trying to leap and twirl and do a few flips--as he makes his way to the other side of every mystery, isn't he? Now, what does a wire walker need? He always needs a focus--a fixed point that doesn't waver so that he can keep his eyes on it and get centered, get a sense of where he's going, where he is in the landscape, especially when he feels himself wobbling. Now besides the fixed point, for a short little walk, he doesn't need much help. He can take one, two, three steps and he's there. Cue the applause and the dog act."

John chuckled. "He would kill you if he heard this analogy, you wanker."

"Of course. That's why it's perfect. Now listen-- For the complicated maneuvers, the long walks, the ones where he might be juggling three or four balls or riding a unicycle, for Christ's sake--he _can't do it alone_. He needs help. He's gotta have something that will help keep him balanced, shift him this way or that so he doesn't fall and break his fucking neck."

"And I'm his balancing pole, then? What a lame compliment, Greg . . ."

"That's exactly what you are, Dr. Watson. And without you--splat! Sherlock's got a face full of sawdust."

"You are a poet, D.I. Lestrade--and as full of shit as I am," John laughed. "But if I'm the bloody balancing pole, then what the hell are you?"

Lestrade paused a moment, then answered with a grin, "I'm the drunken lorry driver who packs him up and gets him down the road for the next show. Now go the hell to sleep, Doctor Watson."

With that, Lestrade trudged off to bed and both men fell into deep, quiet slumber.

The next morning, John had an early shift at the surgery, so he rushed out the door with just a wave. At his mid-day break, he emailed his friend.

 

_Greg,_

_Thanks again for the makeshift hotel. Very grateful._

_BTW, you're not the lorry driver. You're the fixed point that keeps us both walking forward._

_See you later with the genius._

_John_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, Rupert Graves was a clown and a wire walker in his youth.


End file.
